


In Which Jono Is Depressed As Fuck (and Angelo Helps Him Out)

by crowtesque



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Depression, Friendship, Gen, Self-Hatred, Telepathy, healing telepathy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 05:33:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10181756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowtesque/pseuds/crowtesque
Summary: The mutant doesn’t respond, instead clutching the binding of his chest in one hand, like a lifeline. If he could just focus, he could get up. Maybe. He just feels so sick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> one of many fanfics i'd like to write of mutants dealing with their mental health. italics are Jono's thoughts, most of which he's projecting unconsciously. hope you enjoy!

Jono knows things are bad before he even opens his eyes. The pressure in his chest is worse than usual. Groggily blinking his eyes, the mutant runs a hand over his chest, letting his nails scrape gently across the bandages holding his core together. The action soothes his anxiety a tad, but morbid curiosity has him push a finger into a fold in the binding near his collarbone. Well, where his collarbone would be. Psiionic flames tickle against his digit and Jono can’t fight the wave of nausea that overcomes him.

_Every bloody time._

He tells himself it’s the pressure that keeps him in bed until Angelo comes to wake him. 

“Jono,” Angie calls, and Jono hears the clink of glass as an empty beer can is kicked, “Time to get up ‘n face the sunlight, amigo.”

Jono pulls his pillow over his head. _Not the time, Angie._

“C’mon, I can here ya moping from all the way upstairs,” his friend replies, and Jono winces. He must be projecting again. Things just keep getting worse and worse this morning, don’t they?

“Got that right, I’m sick to my stomach just bein’ near you, you miserable fuck. No offense,” Angelo adds as an afterthought, the teasing tone dissipating when Jono doesn’t acknowledge him, and moves to sit at the foot of his friend’s bed.

The mutant doesn’t respond, instead clutching the binding of his chest in one hand, like a lifeline. _If he could just focus, he could get up. Maybe. He just feels so sick._

“Pretty bad today?” Angie asks, voice gentle, _too gentle, would he fucking stop that? He doesn’t deserve that, not today._

“Hey, you knock that off. I’m your friend, let me help you. Not even the sight of your ugly mug’ll stop me from caring.”

Jono sends him the telepathic equivalent of a huff and continues pointedly not responding, but his body shudders as another wave of nausea hits him. _He was a mess. It was hard to consider anything bloody close to positive when he ached this bad. And here he was, subjecting the person he cared most about to his thoughts--_

“Jono, amigo, stop thinking,” Angie’s voice sounds wounded, “You’re hurting yourself, prodding at your brain like that.”

_Am I hurting you? Sorry, mate._

“No, dios-- you aren’t projecting, I don’t need you to project to know you’re hurtin’.”

Jono shrugs, pushing his face into his pillow. 

_I know._

Jono can feel Angie’s doubt, so he focuses on projecting the small amount of light his friend’s words brought him.

Angelo sighs and flops next to him on the bed, and stares until the other mutant opens his eyes to watch back. Jono notes with little interest that the creases in Angie’s skin are more pronounced. _He isn’t having a good day either._

“Read my mind,” the mutant asks, ignoring Jono’s immediate projection of _badwrongno_ , “C’mon, let me help you feel a little better.”

_You’re not going to leave me alone unless I say yes._

Angie hums his confirmation, and distracts himself with wrapping the skin of his fingers around one of Jono’s wrists. Jono hasn’t needed skin contact in order to read minds in years, but he appreciates the familiarity that comes with it.

Jono feels, first of all. Can feel the steady rise and fall of his (Angelo’s) chest, the thump of his heart. He breathes, and feels the oxygen fill his lungs and he wants to cry but no, this isn’t the important part. 

He feels loved, and he can’t deny it.

Jono withdraws hastily, trying not to act like the fact scared him to death.

“Better?” Angie asks. He doesn’t remove his fingers.

_Suppose so._


End file.
